


Whatever Gets You Through the Night

by sleeprettydarling



Category: Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: Drama, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, M/M, McLennon Fanfic Exchange, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9963884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeprettydarling/pseuds/sleeprettydarling
Summary: When John catches wind of a prostitute in Hamburg who's willing to do two blokes at once, he and Paul agree to pay her a visit. John has an ulterior motive, but he's unaware that Paul has a plan of his own. Misunderstandings, feelings, and an abundance of sex ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovelypaul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelypaul/gifts).



> This was written for the Mclennon Fanfic Exchange on Tumblr! My prompt was "after a show in Hamburg, in a hotel or something." I took the "or something" part of this and ran with it, so I do hope my partner enjoys it!
> 
> As always, I have to thank [Kenzie](http://twinkpaul.tumblr.com/) for looking over this for me and acting as my sounding board. This fic would not be the same without her input!

There was a prostitute in Hamburg who was willing to take two dicks at once. John heard it from Stu, who heard it from Jürgen, who once had a class with her cousin's boyfriend at the Meisterschule für Mode. John laughed it off, squinting an eye to peer into the bottom of his beer bottle. A few stray drops culminated into a sip too decent to waste, and John knocked it back before chunking the empty bottle at Stu. It veered to left popped against the cobbles near Stu's boots, exploding in a satisfying shatter of glass.

"Sounds like a load of shite," John said over the muffled music from the Kaiserkeller.

Stuart shook his leg, knocking loose pieces of the bottle that managed to land in the folds of his leathers. "Just what I heard."

"Doesn't make sense, does it? Only got one hole, birds, don't they?"

"Two if you count their mouths," Stu said. "Three if you count—"

John cackled wildly, the sound echoing into the night. Girls didn't do that. Any business surrounding assholes was reserved for queers, though he didn't expect Stu to know that. He was spared that conversation when the Kaiserkeller's backdoor creaked open behind him. The music surged and John caught a riff from an Eddie Cochran tune and, smiling, he got up from the floor of the alleyway as Paul and George joined them outside.

"Took you long enough."

Paul rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "This one," he said, jerking his thumb at George, "couldn't stop talking to Ringo."

John grinned, ruffling George's hair and earning a scowl in return. "How sweet, Georgie! You made a friend!"

"Gerroff," George grumbled, shoving at John's hand.

"Got a ciggie for me, John?" Paul asked, leaning in. He always did this, even though John knew perfectly well he had his own pack in the pocket of his jacket—he could see the outline of it through the leather. Couldn't be bothered to smoke his own when someone else could provide one for him, selfish prick. John fumbled one out of his pocket.

"Shall I light it for you, too, princess?"

Paul slid the cigarette between his lips, which curled slightly. "Mm, would you?"

John struck a match and guided it to Paul's cigarette, his free hand shielding the little flame from the damp breeze. Paul raised his hand to help, his fingers brushing against John's skin, warm and rough. Their eyes locked and Paul smiled, inhaling deeply, the glowing tip reflecting in his eyes.

John jerked away, lighting a cigarette for himself and tossing the match aside.

"What've you two been up to, then?" George asked, as if nothing had happened. Nothing _had_ happened. The moment, for whatever it was worth, only existed in John's head. Paul had a face that made normal interactions seem flirtatious, but John knew him well enough to know that his interests were firmly grounded in the fairer sex.

"Never you mind." John wagged a finger at him. "You're much too young for prostitute talk, son."

"Prostitutes, ey?" Paul lifted an eyebrow.

"One in particular," Stuart said.

John flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Load of rubbish, if you ask me." He could feel Paul's eyes on him, waiting for details. They'd never encountered a whore that Paul didn't like. "Supposed to do two blokes at once."

Paul's eyes lit up like a sunray. "We should pay her a visit, then. See for ourselves."  

John choked on a lungful of smoke. "She might not even _exist_ ," he protested, but he suddenly found himself wishing she did. There was no question that "we" meant two of them, _John-and-Paul_ , as always. Paul had left it open for anyone to volunteer, but they wouldn't. They all knew.

John shivered despite the heat building up under his jacket. He and Paul had had sex right next to each other—literally—loads of times, thanks to the close quarters of their room in the Bambi Kino. He was intimately familiar with Paul's sounds, the way his breath hitched when he was about to come, but it would be something else entirely to be inches from Paul's face when it happened.

"Find out for us, then, will you?" Paul said, winking, and that was that.

John asked Stu to ask Jürgen to track down the prostitute's cousin's boyfriend from the Meisterschule für Mode, and within a week, Stu came back to him with a name and how to find her. From there, it was only a matter of finding out if Paul was still interested, though John knew, with equal parts excitement and dread, that he would be.

***

"You don't seem that excited about it." Paul met John's eyes in the grimy mirror over the washbasin. It was early enough that they had the cleaner ladies' toilet all to themselves, but judging by the swelling music pounding through the walls, they only had a few more minutes of privacy before the cinema show ended and women would start filing in.  

John's eyes flicked away from Paul's to focus on his own mouth in the mirror, scrubbing his teeth with renewed vigor. Of course he was excited, but until this morning, it had felt like a joke. Now, with their plans firmly in place, John was nearly shaking with nerves.

Paul stopped shaving, half his face still covered in a layer of foam. He rinsed off his razor, brows furrowed, as if it required complete concentration. "It'll be fun, I think," he said finally. "Erotic, y'know. Both of us filling up a girl, sharing her like a piece of pie." He affected a bad American accent for the last bit.

John spat into the basin. "Right." He shoved his toothbrush back in his mouth. He was in over his head and they hadn't even met the prostitute, Sabine, yet. If Paul knew John's only desire to go through with this was for the excuse to be close to him, to feel Paul's breath on his skin, Paul would break his neck—or worse. It wasn't as though John hadn't entertained his fair share of Hamburg women, but it would be hard to enjoy her with Paul _right there_.

"Seriously, John." Paul crossed his arms, propping his hip against the washbasin. He looked ridiculous with the shaving cream still on his face, completely counteracting the stern set of his jaw. John scrubbed harder. "Your teeth have never been this clean in your life. C'mon, enough." He reached for John's toothbrush as if to pluck it out of his mouth himself, but John twisted out of his reach.

"All right, all right." John spat out the remnants of his toothpaste, cupping water in his palm to rinse. "She's just a hooker, nothing to get excited about."

Paul frowned and turned his attention back to the mirror, muttering something like " _just a hooker_." He dragged his razor along his cheek, the sound of the blade cutting through the short prickles of hair seemingly extra loud despite the pounding in John's ears.

"It's not that I don't want to. I do," John added, before Paul could get the wrong idea. "But there's no reason to act queer about it."

Paul rolled his eyes, curling his upper lip over his teeth to access the smattering of whiskers that were trying to become a moustache. "No," he agreed mildly, his lips barely moving. He waited until he finished with his moustache to speak again. "But maybe if you didn't act like it was a death sentence, I wouldn't have to worry that I'm forcing you into this."

Paul was no longer looking at him, preoccupied with finishing his shave, and a thick, guilty feeling settled in the base of John's throat. Didn't Paul realize it was the other way around? John was the one with the queer fascination with his best friend. Paul may have been the one who was interested from the start, the one who pushed John to find out if she was real, but at least his intentions were good.

There was a lull as the cinema show ended, then came the familiar sounds of shuffling footsteps and German chatter. Their time was up.

"You're not forcing me," John said. He'd balanced his razor, glasses, shaving cream, and soap along the edge of the basin, and he began gathering them up. "I just don't want you to regret anything, or— _Christ!_ " His glasses slipped out of his hand, bounced against the side of the basin and clattered to the floor.

Paul knelt before him in an instant, reaching into the dark, damp space beneath the pipes. "Here they are," he said, standing. He ignored John's outstretched hand in favor of turning on the water and holding the frames under it. "They're all right. Bit manky, though."

He took his time, washing them carefully, using the tip of his finger to scrub off grime that was invisible to John's eyes. "When've I ever regretted a shag?" Paul asked.

"It'll be weird, though, won't it? With me?"

"Why should it? Reckon you're the only one it wouldn't be weird with." He dried John's glasses off on the edge of his shirt, then held them up to the light to inspect the lenses. Satisfied, he gently slid them onto John's face. "There."

John blinked rapidly as he adjusted to the change in focus, skin prickling where Paul's fingers had brushed. "Now," Paul said, smiling, "why don't we—"

The door flung open and two German women bustled in, talking loudly to each other. Their words cut off abruptly when they noticed John and Paul, and one raised her purse as if she planned to smack them with it.

"Ah— _Guten morgen!_ " John said, grinning at their matching expressions of revulsion. " _Wie geht's_?"

He and Paul shoved out of the bathroom, their laughter echoing through the corridor and drowning out foreign reprimands. Paul was right. The only way this wouldn't be weird is if they did it together. John couldn't imagine sharing a girl with Stu or— _Christ_ —someone as young as George. This was a once in a lifetime, exclusive Hamburg experience; overthinking would ruin it for both of them. 

***

"You ready?" John asked. It was a pointless question; Paul had repeatedly caught John's eye during their show, beaming eagerly. Still, it only seemed fair to offer him one last chance to back out.

The competitive smile on Paul's face was answer enough. "Are _you_?"

"More experienced, aren't I?" John dug his elbow into Paul's ribs.

Paul pushed him back. "We'll find out, won't we?"

According to Stu, the brothel where Sabine worked was just down the street from the Kaiserkeller. John squinted against the neon lights, reading the signs as they passed. His lips were tight, trembling at the corners—it was hard to keep himself from grinning. Excitement had been building up inside him since that morning and now it nearly consumed him, adding an extra little bounce to his step.

It wasn't because of Paul. He'd gone out of his way to remind himself of that every time Paul's face slipped into his fantasies. John had never disliked girls—quite the opposite, in fact—and he'd become particularly fond of the loose, deviant ones in Hamburg. What Sabine offered was unheard of back home, unimaginable even in John's wildest dreams. Paul's proximity might not be a distraction at all.

They reached a building with a tall, narrow sign sticking off the front of it, illuminated with red letters that spelled out MEHRER'S. John angled toward it.

"This is it," he said. "Family business, like."

Paul chuckled. "Very respectable."

Running parallel to the sign was a glass block window that stretched the height of the building. Beneath it, an open door allowed red light to filter out onto the damp street, reflecting in the tiny pools of water caught between the cobbles. The muffled sound of a bass vibrated from inside and John's pulse seemed to pound in time. 

 It wasn't until they reached the threshold that John's eyes were able to focus on the sign posted above the door, which confirmed that they had, indeed, arrived at Mehrer's Hotel Luxor.

Inside, the air was stagnant and warm, heavy with booze, sweat, and floral perfume. John hooked a finger in his collar, dragging it away from his neck. He was still hot and sticky from their performance, and he wished they'd had the sense to return to the Bambi Kino to rinse off and change out of their leathers.

Not that it mattered, he supposed. They'd be taking off their clothes soon enough.

Music was pulsing from the end of a short corridor, which curved to the left and out of sight. To the right was a staircase. They followed the sound and ended up in a large room, which was filled with lush red furnishings. A haze of cigarette smoke lingered against the high, wood paneled ceiling. The space was lit with dim, red-tinted wall sconces and a few scattered lamps, providing just enough light to keep them from crashing into the crowded little tables sprinkled throughout and, mostly importantly, to see the girls dancing on stage.

The girls who weren't on stage prowled around, talking to men at tables, while others lined the walls as if waiting to be approached. It struck John that he had no idea what to do. They normally pulled girls at the strip clubs, after catching one's eye and tipping her throughout the show, though they'd occasionally picked up working girls from the street. This serious approach to the sex business was something entirely new, and John had half a mind to just turn around and leave.

"I don't know what she looks like," he admitted. He was staring at Paul's shoulder, if only to avoid making eye contact with a girl and risk her coming over.

"Let's ask someone." 

Paul took hold of his shoulder, steering him around the tables and toward the bar. There was hardly room for them between the crowd of sailors and their girls for the evening, but Paul managed to squeeze up to the counter anyway, dragging John along with him.

"Er, pardon me," Paul tried, lifting a hand to hail the barman. With the music, catcalls, and general noise of the men around them, Paul's voice seemed to evaporate.

John elbowed him aside. "Hey!" he called over the din, earning a smile from Paul and glares from the women on either side of him. He pretended not to notice; the barman was coming their way.

"Drink?" he asked, accent heavy. 

"No, we're looking for someone," John said loudly. The barman looked at him blankly. John glanced at Paul, who shrugged. "Sabine," John tried.  

The man nodded in understanding. "Busy," he replied. Before the implication could fully settle in, he pointed to a vacant table against the far wall. "You wait."

They left the bar with glasses of draught beer and John let Paul guide him toward the table. The only seating was a red leather bench that was bolted to the wall, just large enough to accommodate two people comfortably. Somehow, their thighs ended up pressed together anyway.

"Well?" John prompted.  

Paul tasted his beer, perfectly at ease. "Well, what? This is good, by the way."

"You still want to do this?" When Paul only stared at him, John explained, "She's going to have spunk dripping down her legs by the time she gets to us."

Paul rolled his eyes. "I reckon she'll clean up."

John shrugged, his arm brushing against Paul's through the sleeves of their jackets. He dug out a cigarette to calm his nerves.

Lighting it for him, Paul asked, "Having second thoughts?" He might have sounded worried, but it was hard to tell through the noise.

"No." John rested his elbows on the table as he smoked, surveying the room. The clientele were a mix of young and old; locals and sailors; ugly, handsome, and everything in between. How many of them were simply thrill seeking, like him and Paul? How many were just plain lonely?

"What are you thinking about?" Paul asked, soft, leaning in so John could hear him. John's chest went tight and he took a long drag to relieve it.

"Bit sad, this," he answered. "Paying for sex because you can't get it yourself."

Paul laughed. "It is when you look at it like that."

"Oh-ho." John snorted, grinning despite himself. "I suppose you have a way to make this sound positively cheery, then, do you?"  

"Well, I dunno." Paul shrugged. "It's just for fun, innit? Like going to the pictures. I could watch something on the telly at home, but it's nice to go out, y'know? For the experience. For a date," he added with a wink, and John laughed despite the tingling in his cheeks. No one would take a date to a brothel, that was the joke, but a part of his mind still took the thought and ran with it.

"Why, Paul McCartney," he said in a falsetto, bringing his fingers to his mouth in mock surprise. All he could do was push the thought down, make a joke out of it—he wouldn't get through this any other way. "This is hardly the place for a lass like me."

Paul looked away, downing the rest of his drink, and John watched the bob of his throat with detached fascination. He wondered what it would feel like to put his tongue on the jut of his Adam's apple, taste the lingering sweat there.

John quickly turned his attention to his own neglected drink, and he was vaguely aware of Paul responding—something witty and genial, no doubt—and John laughed obligingly. Alarm bells were blaring in his head, warning him to get out while he still could, to feign illness or disinterest or _anything_ , because this was a mistake and he knew it. Had really thought he'd be able to keep his eyes off Paul? In the heat of the moment, would he even have the sense to stop himself from touching, tasting? They still had their clothes on, but the mere promise of sex had already pushed John's imagination into overdrive.

If he fucked up, if he lost control for even a second, he'd lose everything. Paul would hate him, leave the band entirely and go back to Liverpool, and it would be no one's fault but John's. What if Paul told the others and they turned on him, too? He'd be alone.

But he couldn't move, couldn't leave, because _Goddammit_ , he wanted this.

A woman approached their table, toweringly tall in black stilettos that made her legs seem to stretch for miles before disappearing under the edge of her skirt. On top, she wore nothing but a black bustier, the swell of her breasts threatening to spill over the edge. It was there John's eyes lingered as she placed her hands on the table, leaning in to give them a good view.

"You ask for me?" She looked between them, red lips curving in a promising smile. Blonde hair that had been combed to an impossible height fell in loose waves around her face, shadowing her features in a way that was both intimidating and achingly sexy.

"You're Sabine, then?" John managed.

" _Ja_."

"And you'll…" Paul gestured between him and John. "Both of us?"

"You," she said, pointing at Paul, in a tired voice that suggested she'd explained this many times before. "And him." She pointed to John. "Same time, with me." She pointed to herself, lifting an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Yes," Paul replied, too quickly, earning a smile from Sabine that formed a lump in John's throat.

It was too late to back out. The money was exchanged and Sabine led them back to the staircase. It took them past the glass block window, which reflected the lights from outside, abstract blots of red shining against the black.

The upstairs was little more than a plain, narrow corridor with doors on either side, spaced out evenly. They followed Sabine, single file, the floorboards creaking beneath the thin carpeting. It was hard not to feel anxious in such a tight space—John wouldn't be able to spread his arms without them smacking into the walls—and he glanced at Paul over his shoulder, seeking out his reassuring smile. The music from downstairs was muted now, no more than a distant hum that was nearly lost under the moans and screeching bed frames from behind closed doors.

Realization hit John like a freight train. They were really doing this. Soon they would be adding to the noise, his and Paul's sounds echoing into the hallway.

Finally, Sabine unlocked an empty room and ushered them inside, and this was it. The next time they passed through the door, it would be after they'd fucked her. Together. John shivered.

The room was small and reeked of sex, old sweat, and the warm bite of smoke. It was clean enough, furnished with a four-poster bed adorned with sheer red curtains. The only other furniture was a small wooden nightstand, upon which sat an overflowing ashtray. The bedding was crumpled and skewed, as if it had been fixed up in a hurry. Still, there were no fluid stains that John could see and it was altogether more welcoming than their dank little room at the Bambi Kino.

The door closed and Sabine smiled at them, back pressed against the wood, reaching behind herself to slide the lock into place.

When John turned to catch Paul's eye, Paul was already looking at him, lower lip between his teeth. Nervous. It was up to John to take the lead, then.

"Right," he said. "How do we go about this?" 

Sabine approached them slowly, one leg crossing in front of the other in a way that made her hips sway with every step. "First," she said, accent deep and sultry, "I get you ready." Her eyes were locked on John's as she sank slowly, _slowly_ to her knees— _oh God_.

She took Paul's hand and guided him closer, until his and John's sides were pressed together, and the touch was electric. Like compass exposed to a magnet, John's senses pointed toward Paul at once, acutely aware of the warm, firm press of Paul's side against his own, the way his breaths came in shallow puffs, a ghost of a sound cracking in his throat. Even as Sabine began to stroke John through the leather, it was Paul's needy whine that vibrated under his skin, making his dick twitch with interest. 

"Jealous?" she asked Paul, toying with his zip with a long red nail. Paul's hips twitched forward, craving her touch, and John bit back a groan. He wouldn't have noticed if she stopped touching him entirely. It was suddenly the most important thing in the world for him to see her free Paul from his trousers, give him what he needed.

Sabine caught Paul's zip between her thumb and index finger, dragging it down slowly. John's breaths were coming out hard and fast, a frantic, prickly feeling in his chest.

Then her hand was on John and the world tilted sideways. He hadn't even noticed her undoing his belt, reaching past the leather, but now her hand was gliding up and down his prick in long, confident strokes, so very different from the girls back home. He trembled with the shock of it.

Beside him, Paul murmured, "That's it, good girl, just like that…"

John forced his eyes open— _when had he closed them?_ —and his breath caught. It didn't matter that he'd seen Paul's dick before, it was different like this. Sabine was working him with her other hand, twisting her wrist fluidly, and Paul was melting under her touch, twitching in her grasp, and _Christ_ , John could probably come just from watching this.

"You like?" Sabine crooned, her lips brushing teasingly against John's tip, and he almost lost it. He jerked his fist to mouth, biting down on his knuckles, and Sabine's eyes sparkled up at him from beneath her lashes. She was jerking Paul next to her cheek, close enough that they'd brush together if he moved. John nodded stiffly, though he'd already forgotten the question.

She smiled and turned her attention to Paul, dragging her tongue lewdly over the head, and John's hips twitched in sympathy. Her hand on him stilled, holding him back, and her lips parted around Paul's shaft. It was a good thing she was no longer stroking John because he'd be gone just from that image alone, her jaw stretching as she sucked him down, Paul's strangled moan in his ear. He was dimly aware that this was somewhat uncouth, like watching another bloke at the urinal, but he couldn't have looked away if he'd wanted to. The whole world had narrowed down to this, her mouth, Paul's whimpering breaths, his flushed dick sliding in and out of those bright red lips, glistening with saliva.

Suddenly John's dick was against Paul's and a wave of panic washed down his spine, and then he realized Sabine was holding him there, angling him closer. Then somehow, impossibly, she was taking both tips into her mouth, him and Paul pressed together in the wet heat of her mouth. One of them let out a shuddering " _oh God,_ " but it seemed to come from another world entirely; her tongue slid over and around them, tickling at a sensitive spot between the heads and setting John's nerves on fire. 

His hips jerked, pushing deeper into her mouth, his dick colliding with Paul's and their bodies pressed together tight and hot. "That's it, Christ—" Paul groaned, and John's knees nearly buckled. He knew well enough by now that Paul babbled like this during sex, but it was a very different thing to hear it right in his ear, as if Paul were talking to _him_.

Sabine could have finished them off like this and John wouldn't have complained. As he moved in and out of her mouth, their shafts rubbed together, nice and slick, and a warm sort of pleasure built in John's gut and bloomed in his cheeks. Then she pulled back, letting them slip from her mouth entirely, and a thread of saliva connected his dick to Paul's. His heart lurched, hips jerking forward, snapping the thread and smearing a slick blob of precome on Sabine's cheek.

She giggled, pushing herself to her feet in one easy motion. "Come," she said, taking their hands. "Time for something better."

She guided them to the bed and said to Paul, "You lie down."

Paul shucked off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and the white shirt underneath was nearly transparent with sweat along his spine. He peeled the shirt off too, his back muscles flexing as he lifted it up and over his head, ruffling his hair.

John forced his eyes away and busied himself with his own clothing, cheeks burning.

Sabine angled Paul onto the bed, until he was lying down with his knees bent over the edge, his pale torso an almost artful contrast against the dark red bedding. His chest rose and fell rapidly as Sabine got to work on his pants, sliding them down his thighs, his stomach going taut as he lifted his hips to help her out.

There was an ache in John's chest that had nothing to do with Sabine; a deep, burning desire to climb on top of Paul himself, trace the lines of his ribs and feel the hammering of his heart. He was vaguely aware of Sabine hooking her fingers under the edge of her skirt, her hips swaying as she lowered it down, down. He should be watching her. He should be watching like Paul was, propped up on his elbows, his eyes wide and bright.

She left her stilettos on, kicking her discarded panties aside before returning to the bed. She threw a leg over Paul and John's pulse jumped, a desperate noise escaping his throat, and Sabine smiled at him over her shoulder. Then, holding his eyes, she wrapped a hand around Paul's dick and slowly lowered herself onto it.

It was somehow more entrancing than watching his own prick disappear inside a girl. He could see Paul stretching her, her body opening up to welcome him, head thrown back as she let out a long, rehearsed moan. Paul's hands were on her hips, digging in his fingers and making the skin around them go white; John could almost imagine how it would feel if he took her place. It'd be like the press of Paul's fingers on his shoulder as they steered him through a crowd. Firm and steady. But maybe he'd hold on tighter, unwilling to let go, leaving bruises in his wake.

Sabine looked at John again, hair falling in her face, lipstick smeared. "Come here."

John's heart pounded in his throat as he stumbled to the bed, hands shaking as he joined them. He didn't know what his role in this was supposed to be—he thought he'd take her mouth again, but she gestured for him to get behind her. And then, before he could even ask, she arched her back and spread the swells of her ass with her hands, and— _oh_.

Her hole was glistening, slightly open, as if it had been prepared for this.

"You take other hole," she said, and John could hear Paul groan beneath her. Whether it was due to her words or the fact that she was sitting there, unmoving, with Paul waiting inside her, John didn't know. He didn't have to be asked twice, that much was certain.

He shimmied forward on his knees and he lined himself up with her hole—her _asshole_ , Jesus Christ, he never thought he'd get to do this—and he pushed in slowly, carefully. It was tighter than he expected, gripping him like a fist, an unfamiliar resistance that seemed to reject him and welcome him all at once. He was halfway in when he realized he could do this to Paul and it would feel _just like this_ , if he closed his eyes she would _become_ Paul. His hips snapped forward, her muscles clenching tight around him and sending shockwaves up his spine.

He'd barely gotten used to the feeling when she began to move, grinding down on Paul and then back up, taking John in deep.

"Christ," John hissed, grabbing her hips just for something to hold onto, his mouth hanging open and his skin simmering. It wasn't like fucking a girl—except she _was_ a girl, John reminded himself, but it didn't matter. This was different, tighter, not nearly as wet but slick all the same, her muscles hugging every inch of him. Paul would be even tighter, probably, and the thought alone made it impossible to hold back any longer.

He started fucking her in earnest, adjusting to the steady push-pull rhythm she'd started between them. As Paul began to move beneath her, his thighs caught against John's, hot and sticky with sweat. It was surreal, feeling Paul's skin against him like this, the hair on his thighs rubbing against the tender insides of John's legs, as if Paul were fucking him— _Jesus Christ_.

All at once, Paul lifted himself up, changing angles, and John knew this because he felt it, holy shit, he _felt it_ ; Paul was in another hole entirely but it was suddenly as if there was nothing between them, Paul's dick shoving insistently against his own, their balls brushing and colliding as they slammed into her.

John leaned into Sabine, pushing deeper, and Paul's long, low groan told him that he felt it. The sound wrenched in John's chest and he couldn't stop himself from adjusting his angle again, bearing down, desperate to drag another sound out of Paul.

It worked. Paul let out a loud "Ah— _ah!_ " and John could feel him pushing back harder, grinding up against him.

John buried his face on the back of Sabine's shoulder to muffle a moan, and her hair, stiff with product, itched against his face, an overwhelming smell of roses and something sweet like candy making him turn away, exhaling hard through his nostrils to rid himself of it. This wasn't what he wanted, it wasn't what he wanted at all. He might have lost interest entirely if Sabine body hadn't gone nearly flat against Paul's, and just like that, he could see Paul over her shoulder. Paul's eyes were closed, head thrown back, his hair sweaty against his face as if they'd just finished a four hour show. His lips were moving but he didn't seem to be able to find his voice, each of his ragged breaths twisting in John's chest.

John's hands fell from Sabine's hips, landing on the mattress near Paul's shoulders, and Paul's eyes flew open.

Their gazes locked. Paul was staring at him, his face pink, pretty lips hanging open in silent awe. John couldn't have looked away from him if he wanted to, and he found himself fucking her harder if only to see what  kind of reaction he could get—Paul's eyelashes fluttering, his breath hitching, groaning, " _yeah—yeah—please…_ "

Behind him, he felt Paul's knees lift, bracing his feet on the bed and giving more power to his movements. He rocked up into John hard, an electric pleasure that John could feel from his face to his fingertips, his head falling back as a groan ripped from his throat. Paul did it again and again, fueling an inferno in John that was blazing fast and wild, and John was only dimly aware of Sabine moaning between them—she didn't even have to move anymore. Any control she might have had was lost in the tide of their desperation, her body rocking between them like a ship caught in a storm.

When John managed to refocus on Paul, there was a triumphant smile glittering in Paul's eyes, and John realized, belatedly, that this was a challenge. Paul's lips were still moving, and now John could make out a whispered mantra: " _Come on, come on, come on_ …"

John had never been able to turn down a challenge.

He picked up his pace, sweat dripping into his eyes, grinding down when Paul pushed up.

"Ah, that's it," Paul groaned. He was looking right at John, brows furrowed and face shining with sweat, hair matted against his forehead, and for a moment, John could almost pretend there was no one between them. This was Paul's body he was fucking into, tight and hot, and Paul was looking up at him in amazement because he never knew how _good_ it could feel—

John squeezed his eyes closed. He couldn't afford to think like this, Paul would kill him, he _couldn't_ —

Paul's fingers dug bluntly into his shoulder, calluses scratching against his skin as John pounded against him through Sabine. His eyes fluttered open just in time to see Paul throw his head back and let out a long, wrecked groan. The sound vibrated down John's spine, his chest going tight and his skin burning. His mouth dropped open in sympathy and he swore he could feel Paul's breaths mingling with his own, could taste every sound Paul made.

And one, two, three thrusts later, it was over. John shuddered as he came, slumping against Sabine as his orgasm rolled through him, leaving him shaking and winded in the aftermath. When he came to his senses, Paul had a dazed, satisfied smile on his face.

A smile that was aimed at Sabine.

John sat up sharply, tense and alert as if he'd been doused with ice water.

"That was brilliant," Paul was saying gently. "Really wonderful, Sabine, thank you."

Sabine giggled, turning her head as Paul stroked her cheek. Girls always melted when Paul gave them attention, it was nothing new, but this— _this._ Hatred pumped through John's veins and he shoved himself from the bed before he'd even caught his breath.

"Right. Thanks for that."

As he began gathering up his clothes, he heard Paul chuckle behind him. "We'll see you again. Definitely." The bed creaked as he got up and John couldn't bear to look at him. He stared at the wall as he got dressed, anger buzzing in his chest, acid in his throat.

He wouldn't care if he never saw Sabine again, but of course, with Paul, things were never that simple.

***

"It was great," Paul said over breakfast. "Really great. Wasn't it, John?"

John blinked out of his daze. He'd been watching the remainder of his cornflakes soften and dissolve in his bowl as the conversation droned around him. Stu, Pete, and George had been dying to hear the details of last night's exploit, and Paul was eager to share, talking so fast that John couldn't have gotten a word in edgewise. That suited John just fine—he wasn't keen on reliving it anyway.

"Yeah, fantastic," John replied. He swirled his spoon in the milk, destroying the flakes that had somehow managed to keep their shape.

"Wasn't it… y'know...?" George trailed off, a note of discomfort in his voice that made John's head jerk up.

Paul laughed. "Oh no, nothing like that. She was between us the whole time, y'see."  

John made the mistake of glancing at Paul as he spoke, only to find Paul already looking at him, smiling, and it was like a kick to the stomach. All at once, he remembered Paul's smile over Sabine's shoulder, the way the sweat on his cheekbones caught the soft orange light, his breath gusting loud and heavy— _God_ , it was a mistake. John looked away quickly, throat tight. He wished he hadn't eaten at all.

He somehow hadn't lost Paul's friendship, but this was almost worse. He could never look at him the same way again. 

"You'd have to try her out to understand," Paul continued. "Not after tomorrow night's show, though. John and I've an appointment."

John's spoon clattered to the table. "We— _What_?"

Paul stared at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and John wanted to chuck his bowl at that pretty, stupid face. "I arranged it before we left," Paul said, a hint of humor in his tone. "You were standing right there, Johnny."

John hardly remembered getting home last night, much less anything that happened on the way out. How was he supposed to go through with this again? Why would Paul want to? Despite all the praise Paul had given her, Sabine hadn't done much. When John looked back on last night, all of his memories were Paul, Paul, _Paul_. Paul grinding against him, Paul's thighs moving between his own, Paul's hand on his shoulder and breath in his ear.

"What's wrong?" Paul leaned forward, brows knit. He actually looked worried, like John would actually prevent him from screwing Sabine again. "Don't you want to?"

"I'll go if John's out," Pete said.

John's fists clenched against the table. The thought of Pete discovering the shared sensations, of his dick touching Paul's in Sabine's mouth, made the anger flare once more, clouding John's thoughts like a swarm of bees.

"Fuck off," he snarled. "I'm going."

Paul let out a breath, his boot nudging against John's beneath the table, and John was in hell. His only hope was that a bus would hit Sabine before tomorrow night.

***

A bus, it seemed, had not struck Sabine. Or, if it had, she'd recovered enough to proceed with business as usual, on her knees before John and Paul once more. She lavished an inordinate amount of attention on Paul, holding John's dick in her hand as she worked Paul with her mouth, smiling at him and asking "good?" or "you like?"

Not that John could blame her. No one was immune to Paul's charms, John included.

John had just made up his mind to go sit in the corner and leave them to it when Paul's fingers touched the back of Sabine's hand, mere _centimeters_ from John's dick, and used it to maneuver John closer to her mouth. "C'mon, c'mon, both of us now."

She did as Paul asked, as anyone would, and they were pressed together in her mouth again, Paul's dick slip sliding against his own. It was just as good as last time, but also horrible, _horrible_ , because this was the only way John would ever get to feel him. When they quit seeing Sabine, it would be over. That day would come sooner or later; they weren't going to stay in Hamburg forever. Then John would be stuck with this, this mere glimpse of what it would be like with Paul, and it would ruin them. No matter what he'd felt for Paul before, it had been easy enough to hide because he hadn't _known_.

When it was time to move to the bed, Paul took his hand, dragging him along, and John almost cried.

***

Paul arranged another appointment after it was over, and another after that. Each time it was worse. Paul would brush the hair out of his face, coax him toward completion when it took him longer to come, stroke his back as he caught his breath. And each time he flirted with Sabine, thanked her, told her she was lovely and that he couldn't wait to see her again.

"Got a ciggie, John?" Paul asked as they stepped into the night, their shadows on the cobbles outlined in red. His hair was mussed as a result of Sabine's fingers and the way he'd tossed his head against the bedding, his face flushed and satisfied.

John leaned away from the hand on his arm. "No."

"You do," Paul countered, grinning. "I know you do." His hand slid along John's waist, reaching for his pocket, and John smacked his hand away.

"Smoke your own for once."

He only made it a few more steps before he realized Paul was no longer beside him. Paul had stopped in the middle of the street, the color gone from his face along with the smile. He looked confused almost. Upset.

"John, what's wrong?"

John rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger, pressing until he saw colors erupt in the blackness. It was so hard not to yell, to curse at Paul for stringing him along, for being kind to him, for making it feel like they could be a couple only to emerge into the real world as friends again. But none of it was Paul's fault, really. It was John and his overactive imagination, his twisted hopes, his desperation to see things that weren't really there. A couple of normal friends could handle this, could have a good time and get a laugh out of it, but John had never been normal.

When he opened his eyes, Paul had moved closer. "Nothing," John said. "Running low, is all."

"Smoke one of mine, then." Paul produced two cigarettes and a matchbook, leaning in close so he could light them on the same flame. John stepped back as soon as his began to smolder. Paul watched him for a moment, sucking in a deep breath of smoke that he let out through his nose. "You still like this, don't you?" he asked finally. "If not, I can—"

"What?" John cut in, a familiar rage sparking inside of him. "You'll get Pete to go with you?"

"No," Paul said, very slowly. He was looking at John carefully, something urgent in his eyes, desperate. "I told you, you're the only one it wouldn't be weird with." 

John sighed, scratching at his hair. It wasn't even that exciting anymore, that was the strange thing. Sabine had a very predictable routine. She blew them, stripped, mounted one of them and let the other fuck her from behind. For what started as something taboo and unbelievable, it had become almost boring. If it weren't for Paul, looking into his eyes as they felt each other move, it would have already lost its appeal.

"What do you get out of this, anyway?" John asked.

Paul looked away, smoking. Then, quietly, "What do _you_ get out of it?"

"Sex." The word came out harsher than John had intended and Paul flinched.

"Right," Paul agreed, sighing. "Sex."

They didn't talk the rest of the way home, their footsteps echoing loudly despite the noise around them, and John couldn't help but wonder if this was the beginning of the end.

***

"Something different this time," Paul said when Sabine gestured for him to lie down. He climbed onto the bed, standing on his knees, and John stared hard at the floor to keep from looking at him.

"Sabine, love." Paul beckoned her over, arranging her until she was on her hands and knees in front of him. "And you behind her, baby."

It took John a moment to realize that Paul was talking to him. When the words sunk in, his stomach dropped. If he got behind Sabine, he would be right across from Paul. They wouldn't merely catch each other's eyes over her shoulder; they'd be face-to-face, staring at each other as they fucked her from each end.

His pulse pounded in his ears as he maneuvered onto the bed, his palms sweaty when he gripped Sabine's hips. Sabine arched her back, offering herself, lifting one hand to take hold of Paul.

"All right?" Paul asked, searching John's eyes. He seemed unsure of himself, nervous, even as Sabine guided him into her mouth with an obscene slurp. His lashes fluttered, eyes still on John's, and John could feel himself flushing.

"Yeah," he said. "All right." He busied himself with lining his dick up with Sabine's hole. This time she hadn't had an appointment before them, so she'd taken some time stretching her ass out in front of them with her own fingers and something that looked like Vaseline, and, well, it'd be a shame to let her effort go to waste. It wasn't because he preferred this—it _wasn't_. 

John pushed into her slowly, groaning low in his throat as he pushed through the achingly tight ring of muscle. It had never felt this way before. She was always loose and ready thanks to whoever had fucked her previously, and a shiver wracked John's entire body as he pushed the rest of the way in. He took a moment to collect himself, and when he lifted his eyes, Paul was staring at him.

John froze, pinned in place by Paul's dark, heavy gaze. Paul's lips were parted, his eyes flicking down toward John's crotch, and John's skin burned under the attention. Paul sucked in a breath as if he planned to say something. Then his lips snapped closed and he met John's eyes again, smiling.

"Good?" Paul asked, breath hitching. He dug his fingers into Sabine's hair, clutching it as his hips swiveled delicately.

John nodded, holding his lower lip between his teeth so tight he vaguely wondered if it would bleed, and then, slowly, he began pulling out. He didn't have to look up to know Paul was watching, watching with the same fascination John was as his dick slid out of her nice and easy, shining with excess Vaseline, and he shoved it back in with a snap of his hips. There was a groan; John didn't know if it had come from himself or Paul, but Sabine's muffled whine was louder.

As he began to set a rhythm, rocking in and out, her ass pushing back to meet him, it became harder and harder to focus on what bothered him about this. The sound of his skin slapping against Sabine's, punctuated by Paul's groans and his own muffled whines; the hot, musty smell of sex wrapping around them—that was everything. John gripped her harder, yanking her into each surge of his hips, until Paul's dick slipped out of her mouth and she let out a moan that was very nearly a scream. 

"God, yeah, that's it," Paul murmured, his elbow working as he jerked himself. "Give it to her, Johnny, go on."

A broken moan tumbled from John's lips. The sound of his name on Paul's lips, husky and low, flowed through him in a wave of excitement that settled somewhere in his core, tightening like a coil.

And then Sabine sucked Paul back into her mouth, wet and loud, muted little moans cutting in and out as she allowed Paul to fuck into her throat, a rhythmic staccato of sound.

Paul's hair hung in his face, sweat dripping off the dampened tips and onto his skin, running down the bridge of his nose. John didn't know when he'd moved his hand, but suddenly his knuckles bumped against Paul's cheekbone, and Paul was looking at him, smiling. Somehow, it felt natural to slide his hand over Paul's slick forehead, smoothing his hair back. And Paul, Paul leaned into his touch, turning his head to graze his lips over John's palm. John's chest seized, a low burning panic mixing with his arousal, which only served to push him harder, faster.

Then Paul's hands were on him, too, one holding the back of his head, the other cupping his jaw, hot and damp.

"Christ, Paul," John hissed, leaning in, and Paul must have been moving too, because suddenly their foreheads were pressed together, breaths mingling.

Paul came first, a shudder wracking through him, gasping out "oh— _oh!_ " against John's cheek. John turned his head and kissed him.

It only took a second for John to realize his mistake, his lips tingling from the heat of Paul's skin, the quick, soft touch wrenching out his own orgasm even as he jerked away from Paul, heart thundering in terror. He ruined it. He ruined everything, not like it was any fucking surprise.

He pulled out of Sabine and staggered to his feet, his leg muscles weak and confused and buzzing numbly from his position, and he grabbed onto the bedpost to keep himself from falling.

Paul might have been saying his name as he yanked up his pants, but John could barely hear him over the pounding in his ears. He'd barely done up his zip before he left the room, tugging his shirt over his head as he stormed down the stairs.

***

John pretended to be asleep when Paul arrived back at the cinema, and even though Paul had to know John was faking it—he'd only arrived minutes before Paul, after all—he didn't say anything. He didn't say anything to anyone about what had happened, even when the others greeted him with their usual yearning for details.

"It was good," Paul said. "Great. But 'm knackered."

He left it at that. John stared hard at the wall, his heart beating wildly. Was it possible that Paul hadn't noticed? He was right in the middle of an orgasm when it happened, so maybe, _maybe_ —

It didn't matter. This had gone too far. There was no way John could go back to the Hotel Luxor, even if Paul acted like nothing happened. This was fucking with his head, blurring the lines that had always kept him straight. He'd gotten too comfortable with Paul, and if he had any chance at burying this and going back to normal, he had to stay away from him.

It could take a few days, maybe weeks, but he had no other choice. Paul would be confused, probably. Hurt. But it was for the best. When John could look at him again without wanting to touch him, kiss him, then they could mend the breach between them.

John skipped out on breakfast the next morning to "work on a song," though he really just stayed in bed and caught up on the sleep that had eluded him the night before. He was still alone when he woke up in the early evening, and though he would have been content to hide out until it was time for their show at the Kaiserkeller, his stomach demanded otherwise.

He turned up his collar and slipped into the cool Hamburg air, mind racing. The only place he could go without the risk of running into the others was Chug-ou, since they seemed to rely on him as a sort of buffer against the war veterans that frequented there. He wasn't in the mood to see all the uniformed old men either, with their missing limbs and judgmental stares, as if they knew he was a Brit with a Hitler joke resting on the tip of his tongue, but at least if they roughed him up it would give him a good excuse to skip out on tonight's performance.

John shook his head to clear it. He was clearly off his rocker if he'd rather get beat up by some old Nazis than spend time with Paul.

Once seated at Chug-ou, tucked away in a corner out of view from the street, he recited his usual order (" _pfannkuchen mit zitrone bitte, und zucker_ ") and waited, drumming his fingers on the sticky tabletop. It felt wrong to be here alone. He wondered if Paul was talking about him yet, warning the others about the queer in their midst. He wondered if they'd be there at all when he showed up at the Kaiserkeller, or if they'd caught the first train back home.

A cat hopped up on the table, flea bitten and scabbed, a sizeable chunk missing out of its left ear. It rubbed its little gray face against John's cheek, purring, and John scratched the back of its head absently. There was always a strange assortment of stray cats wandering in and out of Chug-ou, and the rest of the band never let them get anywhere near the table. Paul in particular would wave his hand in their faces, making them squint and lean away, until he'd annoyed them enough to make them leave. It felt like a little victory to let this one stay.

It stayed even when John's meal arrived, sniffing at the food and turning its head away in disapproval.

"I don't like 'em either," John said, using his fork two push aside two gherkins, which were served with every plate of pancakes. "These are good, though. Lemon and sugar." He pulled off a bite size piece of one of his pancakes and offered it to the cat, who batted at it playfully.

Aunt Mimi's voice in his head warned not to play with food and John sighed, raking a hand through his hair. He missed home. He missed Mimi, of all people. He never thought he'd end up in a dirty little Chinese restaurant in Hamburg, alone, too afraid to crack a joke at the risk of leaving here as disabled as one of the veterans. How had he fucked up this badly? If only he'd disagreed with Paul from the beginning, if only he'd kept his damn mouth shut about prostitutes. Wherever the others were, they were probably having a great time without him. He'd be surprised if they missed him at all.

Still, if for no other reason than obligation, John walked the short distance to the Kaiserkeller at the appointed time, nerves clenching in his throat like a fist. He didn't know what to expect when he went to fetch his guitar, but it certainly wasn't Paul's voice declaring, "There he is! _Herr_ Lennon, rhythm guitarist extraordinaire!"

The fist in his throat only tightened further. "Yeah, 'm here."

He kept his eyes fixed firmly on his guitar as he tuned up, then he pretended to do it again. He asked George for a reminder of a particular riff and he felt Paul's eyes on him as they ran through it together. Even George cast strange glances at him, demonstrating the chords for a third time.

"I think you've got it, John, really," George said when John played it back. "Not like you to be this nervous."

"Bit of a perfectionist, our John," Paul added hesitantly, a thin note of desperation in his voice. John turned his back in favor of talking to Stu.

Behind him, George whispered, "Did you fight or something?" Paul's reply, whatever it was, was silent.

It felt like hours before it was finally time to start their set, even though they never arrived over five minutes early. He thought it'd be easier once they got started, when he didn't have to look for excuses not to talk to Paul, but it wasn't long after they took the stage he realized he'd been wrong.

Paul stared at him from the other side of their shared microphone, faces inches apart, and it was impossible _not_ to look at him. John focused his attention on Paul's lips, heart kicking in his throat, and his voice cracked through his harmonies. They weren't even two songs in and this was a disaster; Paul's curving, kitten grin shaping around the words, his head knocking side to side with a rhythm that was half in his head, half in time.

John stumbled back from the microphone as soon as he got a chance, sweat pouring down the back of his neck. Paul was laughing with George and, out of the corner of his eye, he could see their blurred shapes jumping around in some odd dance. Ordinarily he'd be right there with them, making a show and entertaining the crowd, but he was frozen in place, strumming his guitar and bending his knees in time with Pete's drums.

Out of nowhere, a bottle sailed across the stage and shattered somewhere over John's shoulder, raining down glass and pungent droplets of beer. A bigger shard knocked against the back of John's head and, as he tossed his hair to shake free any other fragments, another bottle flew. 

In an instant, the crowd was in an uproar, drowning out the music with drunken shouts, and the bouncer, Horst Fascher, yelled back at them, delivering a solid right hook to a sailor who was clambering onto the stage.

It was going to be one of those nights, then.

John backed away from the edge of the stage, his shoulder colliding with one of his band mates. He looked before he could stop himself and there was Paul, his eyes locked with John's, mouth moving but his words lost in the commotion. John's body flushed, too hot suddenly in his jacket, and he wrenched away, fingers slipping against the frets, chords buzzing.

He couldn't survive four more hours of this—he _couldn't_. How angry would Koschmider be if John walked out? Would he end their contract? They would alternate sets with Rory Storm's group soon; would one of them be willing to fill in for him? Maybe Ringo could take Pete's place on drums, and Pete could fiddle around on John's guitar, or maybe—

His thoughts ran like this until their first set ended, and he went straight to the bar for a pint and a handful of prellies from the barmaid. He didn't even have to look up to know Paul was right behind him. He ignored him as he threw back his pills, but Paul, it seemed, had had enough. He grabbed John's shoulder, jerking him back, and suddenly they were facing each other.  

Sweat had collected in the dip of Paul's Cupid's bow and John couldn't look at anything else, his breath hitching when Paul's tongue darted out to wash it away.

"John," Paul said plainly. "We need—"

John yanked his shoulder out of Paul's grip. "Oh, fuck off."

"Can you at least tell me what I did wrong, then?"

For a moment, John could only look at him. Paul's eyes were hard and angry, hair plastered to his forehead, arms folded across his chest. This was normal, familiar. He'd seen Paul like this countless times before. What was new was the underlying softness John saw in his features, knowing how he'd look stretched out on a bed, chest rising and falling and showing off the delicate lines of his ribs. The mouth that was pressed into a hard line now had the potential for such beauty, curved into a carefree smile or hanging open in bliss, shiny and soft against John's. It wasn't as if John had never viewed Paul as someone attractive, or as a sexual being, but there was something new that tugged at his heartstrings, something that made him ache inside knowing that he was the one who caused Paul's features to harden like this.

"Like you don't know." He brought his pint to his lips so fast that it sloshed down his chin, and God, he was ridiculous. Couldn't even hold a proper conversation without spilling beer down the front of himself like drunkard.

"I don't, actually," Paul replied. "I had a great time last night. I was under the impression you did, too."

Had Paul really not noticed? It seemed impossible, but there was no way he could stand here, look John in the face, and tell him he'd enjoyed himself if he realized what had happened.

"Maybe it has nothing to do with that," John said. If Paul was unaware, he didn't want to encourage him to think about it any harder.

"But it does, because you left without me and haven't talked to me properly since."

"What do you want me to tell you?" John snarled, his fingers trembling against his glass as the prellies began to kick in.

"The truth!" The answer seemed to explode from Paul as if he'd been holding onto it for a long time, his eyes gleaming with hurt. "Just for once, tell me how you feel!" 

"You want to know how I feel?" Rage was building inside John, rushing through his veins like poison, burning in his skull. "I told you to fuck off, but here you are being a pain in the arse! How do you think I feel, you cunt?"

Paul threw up his hands. "I can't talk to you when you're like this." He turned on heel and left, shoving through the crowd as if he couldn't get away fast enough.

John could only stand there, shaking like a plucked string, until it was time for them to return to the stage.

The second set went by even slower without Paul's desperate attempts to look at him. He stayed as far away from John as possible, glaring out into the crowd, and misery washed over John like a heavy rain. This wasn't supposed to happen. The whole point of this was to keep Paul from hating him, but everything he did just gave Paul a reason to hate him anyway.

It wasn't until the third set that John started trying to catch Paul's eye. By the fourth, John moved to play next to him, leaning in and murmuring, "You know I didn't mean it."

"I know," Paul replied, soft. "I want to talk to you. After."

John hung his head like a schoolboy, nodding. He owed Paul that much, at least.

He met Paul at the bar when they finished for the night, body thrumming with nervous energy that had nothing to do with the Preludin in his system.

"Not here," Paul said. "Don't get upset, but…"

He trailed off, but John knew at once where this was going. Paul had made another appointment with Sabine.

"No." John folded his shaking arms across his chest, blood hot with betrayal. Paul had to be doing this on purpose now, some fucked up joke at John's expense. "I've had enough, all right? It's not funny anymore."

"It was never funny," Paul replied. His voice was calm, oddly soothing. As if he understood something that John didn't. "Just trust me, will you?"

Against his better judgment, John followed Paul into the night, damp wind biting at his cheeks. He turned to the left to start the now-familiar trek to the Hotel Luxor, but Paul caught his arm.

"Not that way."

John hesitated. "What is this about?"

"I just want to talk." Paul looked aside, staring at something on the street, hiding his expressive eyes. It only made John more nervous. "Away from the others. Just us."

This was it, then. Paul, ever the professional, was going to dissolve their friendship in private while preserving the band. Was he going to ask John to go home? Or would he show a shred of mercy and allow him to stay, even though they would never be close again? Or would Paul be the one to leave? Hamburg was too small for both of them. The neon lights that illuminated the street were suddenly too bright; John's eyes ached, a sick feeling churning in his gut.  

Paul led John to a cheap-looking hotel a few blocks away. It had the seedy sort of look that they'd become accustomed to in Hamburg; it wasn't the sort of place that aimed to be comfortable for a long stay. It offered privacy and a bed, the perfect hideaway for street prostitutes and their clients. That meant it was within their budget, at least.

"This all right?" Paul asked.

That depended entirely on what Paul was planning. It would be an ideal place for him to murder John—no one would find the body for days. "Yeah," he said tightly. He'd never been this uncomfortable, this _nervous_ , in Paul's presence before.

"Right." Paul sucked in a shuddering breath. "I'll just get us a room, then."

The large German woman at the desk didn't look twice at them, simply handed Paul a key in exchange for their money. It was unlike Paul to avoid asserting his heterosexuality—" _We're just friends, y'see, we needed a place to talk in private_ "—but he might have realized it was pointless. John would've been surprised if she spoke a word of English. And anyway, they were probably one of the more normal-looking couples to pass through these doors.

John winced. _Couple_. He needed to get that word out of his head before it made things worse.

As he followed Paul up the stairs, the whole building seemed to creak and groan around them. The heels of their boots clunked loudly against the wooden steps. It reminded him of the first time they visited the Hotel Luxor, only the brothel seemed spacious in comparison. The ceilings here were low, brushing the top of John's hair as they made their way along the second floor corridor, his knuckles bumping against the wall as he walked. The wallpaper was water stained and peeling, the smell of damp wood and mildew permeating the air.

Paul found their room and unlocked the door, standing aside for John to enter, and this was all too familiar.

"All right," he said when Paul locked them in. "What is this?"

Paul chewed at his lips, rolling the key between his hands. "Can we sit?"

The room was bare except for the bed. John's pulse quickened. "I'll stand. I don't suppose we'll be here long."

"Right." Paul sighed, moving past John to sit on the edge of the bed. He rested his forehead on the heels of his hands, fingers drumming a nervous little tune in his hair. John let him squirm. There was nothing he could say until he knew what Paul wanted.

"Listen," Paul said finally, lifting his head, and John couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Paul so utterly  miserable. "I know—I know what's bothering you."

John tensed, clenching his jaw to keep himself from responding.

"I'd hoped you'd tell me yourself, but you never will, will you? You'd drag this on forever if you could."

"I don't know what you're talking about." John's mouth had gone dry, the words sticking on his tongue.

"That's what I mean." Paul's voice was gentle, as if soothing a frightened animal. "You'd rather lie than let yourself be happy."

John folded his arms. "Who said I wasn't happy?"

"It's not that you're _not_ ," Paul said quickly. "It's just—You're afraid to risk that, even if it's for something you want."

"And what is it you think I want?"

Paul let out a heavy breath. "Please come sit with me."

"Tell me what this is about first," John snapped, drawing himself up. "If you brought me here to make fun of me, or—or _lecture_ me—"

"No," Paul cut in. "John, I promise. I just want to hear it, all right? The truth."

John's face burned. "The truth about what?"

"Why you kissed me."

There it was. The words hung between them, dangerous as a guillotine, and John wasn't stupid enough to hold his head under it.

"I didn't."

"You did." Paul's voice was shaking, but he pressed on. "And I kissed you back. I'd been wanting to for a long time." 

The discomfort in his tone was almost palpable and John's mind scrambled to understand Paul's words. It wasn't possible, it didn't make _sense._ Paul loved girls. He was infatuated with them. And Sabine—she was the only girl in Hamburg he'd gone back to over and over again. "But—you—"

"I haven't exactly been subtle, John, have I?" Paul smiled a little. "I always trying to, I dunno, hint that it would be okay if you liked me, too. But you never—I had a feeling, but—maybe it was all in my head, y'know?"

"Why Sabine, then? You're _obsessed_ —"

"Don't you understand? She was an excuse for me to be close to _you_."

John's heart pounded in his throat, his head swimming. "Could've fooled me. All you ever did was tell her how lovely she was."

"It's polite, innit?" Paul asked, brows knit in confusion. "Did you really think—girls like that kind of thing, y'know? Probably don't get a lot of appreciation, whores, do they?"

John's entire body was trembling, his heart going so fast he thought it might give out entirely. "Jesus Christ…"

"C'mon, sit," Paul said gently, as if he knew John's knees were on the verge of giving out. He had no choice but to slump down on the edge of the bed, leaving a cold space between them. "What's going through that bloody head of yours?"  

"For fuck's sake, Paul, isn't it obvious?" Paul only looked at him, waiting, and John couldn't hold himself back anymore. "I'm queer, all right? Or—sort of. Halfway, at least. And I thought I could do this with you, but I—Sabine's a cracker, great fuckin' tits, but I couldn't stop looking at you." He was dimly aware that he should be panicking, but he felt drained, as if that secret alone was all that had been keeping him going.

"I was looking at you, too." Paul's fingers brushed against John's, a light, questioning touch.

John slid his hand away. "You don't understand. Being that close—it wasn't enough." He laughed a little, delirious. "The whole time, I wished I was fucking _you._ "

And there it was. Paul's answering silence shouldn't have been surprising, but something in John's chest twisted anyway, his throat burning. "Forget it," he managed. "I'll just—"

Paul's hand landed on John's cheek, soft and careful, and John's words died in his throat. "Daft git," Paul murmured, and then he kissed him.

It was so surreal that John hardly believed it was happening at all. Paul's lips were pressed softly against his own, a warm, tingling presence, and John could only sit there, frozen, pulse pounding in his throat. 

Then Paul was gone, leaning away. "Sorry," he said, shaky, "I thought—"

John reeled him back in with a hand on the back of his neck, their mouths crushing together clumsily, John's teeth knocking against the back of his lips. Paul giggled into the kiss, muffled and relieved, a quiet " _mmm_ " vibrating against John's lips. This— _this_ was what he had been missing. The gentle scratch of Paul's stubble catching against his own, the rough edge of Paul's thumb stroking along his cheekbone, that sturdy grip on his shoulder that was so familiar but now felt brand new and thrilling. It overwhelmed him, trembling in his lungs, and he clutched at Paul's face, his shoulders, the curve of his waist. He wanted to touch him everywhere at once; he wanted to rip Paul's shirt off and look at him, uninhibited; he wanted to escape from the kiss entirely and find out if it was an accident, if Paul was _sure_ …

As if sensing John's hesitation, Paul pulled back, squeezing the back of John's neck with a warm, trembling hand. "It was never about Sabine," he whispered, his breath hot against John's lips. They were so close that John could see each of his eyelashes, the kaleidoscope of colors in his eyes. Paul dampened his lips. "It was you. From the very start, it was you. I just wanted you to _say_ something."

"I thought you'd hate me," John said, quiet. It felt so wrong to admit it, he never would have dreamed of it even a few hours ago, but it felt safe here, a secret hidden in the small space between their lips. "I thought…" His grip on Paul's shoulder tightened. "I thought you'd go away."

Paul kissed him, short and firm. "Never."

John was back on him in an instant, tugging Paul against his chest. It felt like he'd been wanting this for years, his whole _life_. It was a feeling that had been growing inside him long before Sabine, and it would be there after they'd forgotten her name. This was more than misplaced lust. This was something bigger, something John was too scared to put a name to.

He shifted, drawing one leg under himself, his hand sliding from Paul's shoulder to his waist, pulling him closer still. His fingers slipped under the edge of Paul's shirt, just to _feel_ , and Paul's breath caught. He pulled away just enough to whisper, "go on, Johnny, it's all right," and John shoved his hands up the back of his shirt, the fabric riding up as his fingers skimmed Paul's shoulder blades. Paul was shaking in his arms, tonguing his way into John's mouth, and John was aching in his jeans just from this.

Paul threw a leg over John's hips, positioning himself almost in John's lap. John tilted his head back to accommodate the new angle, Paul holding his face between his hands, lips bearing down hot and heavy against John's mouth. It wasn't chaste or pretty, the type of kisses that Liverpool girls liked; it was desperate and wet, their teeth clacking together and lips slipping, licking into each other's mouths. Either sweat or saliva trickled down John's neck and he didn't fucking care; his entire body was thrumming, burning. It was on sheer impulse that he grabbed Paul's hips and yanked him down into his lap.

Paul was hard. His dick pressed against John's through the layers of denim, and John threw his head back and groaned. Paul's mouth latched onto the exposed line of John's neck, sucking hard, nipping sharply at his skin, marking him— _God_.

Then John's back bounced against the mattress and he looked up at Paul in surprise, winded, mouth hanging open as he caught his breath. Paul was on top of him the same way Sabine had always knelt on top of Paul, except this time, there was no one between them.

"Look at you," Paul murmured, breathless, his knuckles brushing tenderly against John's cheek. A familiar, metallic scent lingered on his fingers from his guitar strings and John caught his hand, pulling it against his mouth and breathing him in.

John wasn't really the one worth looking at here. It was Paul. Paul, with his pink cheeks and red, swollen lips that were pulled into a grin; with his hair hanging limp and ruined in his face, framing heavy bedroom eyes that sparkled with mirth. He was fucking gorgeous in a way John could never be and it seemed impossible that he was allowing John to touch him, kiss him.

John made another grab for Paul's shirt and Paul raised his arms to help, pulling it over his head when John could no longer reach.

"Christ," John breathed, amazed, trailing his fingers down the damp, shiny skin of Paul's torso and letting them drag through the sparse hairs there. His chest rose and fell rapidly under John's touch, and beneath it, John could feel the frantic beating of his heart. John opened his mouth to crack a joke— _excited, are we?—_ but what came out instead was "aren't you gorgeous."

The color on Paul's cheeks deepened. "Still blind as a bat, I see." He leaned down and John met him halfway, their lips surging together more confidently, Paul's fingers raking through his hair.

John hooked his fingers through Paul's belt loops and rocked against him, pulling him closer and adjusting the angle until their dicks slotted together. Paul whimpered into John's mouth and rolled against him, _hard_ , and John choked out a groan. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten this worked up over just kissing, but this was different, this was Paul. _Paul_ , who was straddling John's hips, cradling his face and kissing him like he'd never get another chance. He couldn't imagine Paul wanting this for as long as he had, but the way Paul's mouth devoured his own made him believe it.

John rutted against him, fingers in Paul's belt loops still holding him in place, urging him closer. The friction against the denim was almost unbearable and John squeezed his eyes closed, burying his face in the heated skin at the crook of Paul's neck, dropping open-mouthed kisses where his pulse fluttered.

Paul's hands slid up and down John's chest, hot even through his shirt, palms catching against John's nipples and making him shudder at the unfamiliar spark of pleasure. Paul's lips traced the shell of his ear, pausing to whisper, "Let me look at you."

John's head fell back against the mattress and he groaned, hips bucking against Paul's.

"Just let me, let me…" Paul mumbled distractedly. He was already pushing John's shirt up, the fabric gathering beneath his arms, and Paul abandoned it there, dipping down to kiss John's chest. His thumb brushed over John's nipple, quick and electric, and Paul smiled. "I've always liked these. So small, y'know?"

Then he kissed them, one followed by the other, and _God_ he wasn't a girl, it shouldn't feel this good. Somewhere in the back of his mind John realized Paul had never done this to Sabine—he'd never seen him do it to any of the girls he'd brought back to the cinema—and that thought made up push his chest against Paul's mouth, fisting Paul's hair as a hot, curious tongue flicked against one of the hardened nubs.

John's blood was searing with arousal, breaths loud and ragged, and with a parting kiss Paul sat back up and went back to work on John's shirt, guiding it up and over his head.

"There," he breathed. His hips were rocking in little figure eights against John's, just enough to keep a steady, low burning pleasure going, but it _wasn't enough_. His hands smoothed over John's shoulders, reverent, and John laid his palm flat against Paul's back and pushed, guiding him closer until their torsos pressed together.

"Ah—God," John groaned. Paul's chest was firm and flat against his own, his entire body heavy and male and everything John craved. He kissed down the line of Paul's jaw, quick, heated presses of lips as Paul rocked against him.

John nosed at his cheek. "I want to touch you." He fingered the stitching on Paul's belt, following it around his waist, and Paul's breath caught.

He nodded rapidly, pushing himself up on shaky arms. "Christ—okay."

Rather than reaching for his belt, John clutched his shoulder and pushed, rolling him onto his side. John followed, facing him. "Easier like this," he explained, breathless, and then he was reaching for Paul's zip, fumbling with it.

Paul got John's jeans open first and then he reached down to help John with his own, their hands bumping together, hot and shaky. John shoved his hand inside Paul's pants, too turned on to be embarrassed. When his fingers closed around Paul's dick, something seemed to short-circuit in his brain and all coherent thought was gone.

The whole world had narrowed down to this, him and Paul, and it _was_ Paul, it could never be anyone else, because John had barely gotten two strokes in and Paul was babbling like he always did, except this time it was for John. " _Yeah, Johnny, please, just like that, please—_ "

"Touch me," John breathed against Paul's lips, their mouths hanging open, panting against each other. "Please, Paul."

Paul touched him, shaking fingers curling around John's dick and just holding him for a moment. "God, John," he whispered, amazed, and John kissed the corner of his slack mouth. Paul stroked him once, hesitantly, then again, grip tightening and drawing out a whine, adjusting quickly to the unfamiliar angle of going at this.

It wouldn't take long. John was already so achingly close; he would have been embarrassed if Paul wasn't leaking all over his fingers, precome making his movements slick and easy.

Paul was fucking into John's hand now, warm skin of his pelvis slamming against the circle of John's fingers, and that was hotter than anything. A few more pulls and Paul was gone, coming hot all over John's wrist, and that feeling alone was enough to push John over the edge, shivering hot and cold as his orgasm pulsed through him, Paul's name on his lips.

John was still catching his breath when Paul began kissing his forehead, his temples, murmuring against his skin, "Stay, stay, please don't run away from me again..."   

It took John a moment to realize that Paul was actually worried, that John walking out on him had scared him, and maybe, in a way, he was just as insecure about this as John was. John wiped his hand on the bedding between them and hooked his arm around Paul's waist, snuggling close despite the heat and the sweat, his face tucked against Paul's. "I won't," he promised. "Never again."

When Paul's arm snaked around John's shoulder, stroking the back of his hair, a sort of epiphany skittered at the edge of John's mind, but he was too exhausted to pursue it. He was exactly where he'd always wanted to be.

Everything else could wait.


End file.
